The surface is so smooth and unbroken.
Surely, a dark, empty, deep lies beneath.
He arches his back, and dives into the blackness,
Then silently sinks into the void.

Weightlessly he rises to the surface,
Among swirling ebony-edged, rainbow ripples.
His head is heavy with sparkling gems and pearls;
His heart is heavy with shadows and tears.

He gathers them in and reshapes them,
He absorbs them, he engorges them;
Yet, somehow, he still feels incomplete.

He can't see, he can only feel.
Someone bumps him, and blindly reaches toward him,
And, too, he reaches out, for what is a poet without a reader,
And what is a reader without a poem.

by Mary Naylor

Comments (1)

I agree that poetry is essentially a performance. It is our choice to give ourselves away in words. There will be a reader somewhere, someplace who will applaud such generosity. As I do now, Mary. Encore! Always your friend, Love, Sandra